For this Tin Man, gifts from the heart

Published: Tuesday, May 14, 2013 at 11:46 p.m.

Last Modified: Tuesday, May 14, 2013 at 11:46 p.m.

Treyvon Thomas presents an award to a friend during the Booker High Senior Award Assembly Friday. Thomas, 18, a theater star at the high school who grew up without his parents, will graduate with a better-than-perfect grade point average.

STAFF PHOTO / GABRIELLE RUSSON

A prom ticket so he could savor the last hurrah of senior year.

Bed linens for his dorm bed when he leaves for college later this summer.

And money for the extras, such as cellphone bills or eating out in an expensive city.

In recent weeks, readers granted random acts of kindness for Treyvon Thomas, a Sarasota teenager whose story I wrote in the Sarasota Herald-Tribune last month.

Thomas, 18, a Booker High theater star with a better-than-perfect grade point average, grew up without his parents.

His mother was incarcerated for eight years, and his absent father died several years ago.

His teachers became his surrogate parents, fretting if he didn't have enough warm clothes or connecting him with scholarships to see the world. They viewed him as the ultimate story of overcoming obstacles.

"Treyvon is not supposed to make it," his principal, Rachel Shelley, said Tuesday. "He's supposed to be a statistic."

But the story wasn't just about Treyvon. It was more complex than that.

The other main character was his mother, Angela Thomas, a woman seeking redemption and trying to reconnect with her children after the years apart and a drug addiction. She cried in her cell during the holidays when it hurt the most, and she wrote letters apologizing for her mistakes.

After being released from prison in February, she moved into a halfway house in Tampa.

For nearly a month, she kept it inside that she would surprise Treyvon when he performed as the Tin Man in Booker's production of "The Wiz."

Occasionally, she called me in the newsroom for some emotional support because she knew how terrible she was at keeping secrets.

On a Saturday in April, I picked up Angela from the halfway house and we rode together to watch Treyvon perform in the last musical of his high school career.

Angela was giddy, breathless with excitement. It had been eight years since she saw Treyvon perform on stage, when he was a little boy in summer camp.

When Treyvon finally saw his mother, he cried, then burst into a spontaneous dance, laughing as the makeup smeared on his mother's face. His castmates stood frozen, watching the reunion.

Following my story and a video on heraldtribune.com, school officials said they had received a $1,000 donation for a Community Foundation fund set up to help Treyvon and other at-risk Booker students after they graduate.

One reader emailed me asking where to send Treyvon a graduation card. A county commissioner wanted to buy a framed copy of Treyvon's story.

A reader from New York sent him $250; another from Ohio offered $50 to share between mother and son.

On Tuesday evening, I felt a little nervous as I headed back to Booker.

Shelley asked me if I would present the $300 during the senior award ceremony.

I didn't know exactly what to say. Public speaking gives me more heartburn than writing on deadline. I was a little leery about my outfit because I know how well-dressed teenagers are nowadays. (Seriously, their high heels are too high.)

But I also felt incredibly humbled and honored to be there.

I called out Treyvon's name in front of his friends, classmates, teachers and others in the community in the same theater where I saw him dance while painted silver as the Tin Man.

His story mattered enough for readers to feel something and then take action.

Perhaps it was because Treyvon's life story was about hope, Booker counselor Lem Andrews speculated.

"It tugs at your heart," Andrews said. "We hear so much negativity. It's sometimes nice to hear how something bad has been turned into good."

<p>The gifts were from strangers.</p><p>A prom ticket so he could savor the last hurrah of senior year.</p><p>Bed linens for his dorm bed when he leaves for college later this summer.</p><p>And money for the extras, such as cellphone bills or eating out in an expensive city.</p><p>In recent weeks, readers granted random acts of kindness for Treyvon Thomas, a Sarasota teenager whose story I wrote in the Sarasota Herald-Tribune last month.</p><p>Thomas, 18, a Booker High theater star with a better-than-perfect grade point average, grew up without his parents. </p><p>His mother was incarcerated for eight years, and his absent father died several years ago.</p><p>His teachers became his surrogate parents, fretting if he didn't have enough warm clothes or connecting him with scholarships to see the world. They viewed him as the ultimate story of overcoming obstacles.</p><p>"Treyvon is not supposed to make it," his principal, Rachel Shelley, said Tuesday. "He's supposed to be a statistic."</p><p>But the story wasn't just about Treyvon. It was more complex than that.</p><p>The other main character was his mother, Angela Thomas, a woman seeking redemption and trying to reconnect with her children after the years apart and a drug addiction. She cried in her cell during the holidays when it hurt the most, and she wrote letters apologizing for her mistakes.</p><p>After being released from prison in February, she moved into a halfway house in Tampa. </p><p>For nearly a month, she kept it inside that she would surprise Treyvon when he performed as the Tin Man in Booker's production of "The Wiz."</p><p>Occasionally, she called me in the newsroom for some emotional support because she knew how terrible she was at keeping secrets. </p><p>On a Saturday in April, I picked up Angela from the halfway house and we rode together to watch Treyvon perform in the last musical of his high school career. </p><p>Angela was giddy, breathless with excitement. It had been eight years since she saw Treyvon perform on stage, when he was a little boy in summer camp.</p><p>When Treyvon finally saw his mother, he cried, then burst into a spontaneous dance, laughing as the makeup smeared on his mother's face. His castmates stood frozen, watching the reunion.</p><p>Following my story and a video on heraldtribune.com, school officials said they had received a $1,000 donation for a Community Foundation fund set up to help Treyvon and other at-risk Booker students after they graduate. </p><p>One reader emailed me asking where to send Treyvon a graduation card. A county commissioner wanted to buy a framed copy of Treyvon's story.</p><p>A reader from New York sent him $250; another from Ohio offered $50 to share between mother and son.</p><p>On Tuesday evening, I felt a little nervous as I headed back to Booker. </p><p>Shelley asked me if I would present the $300 during the senior award ceremony.</p><p>I didn't know exactly what to say. Public speaking gives me more heartburn than writing on deadline. I was a little leery about my outfit because I know how well-dressed teenagers are nowadays. (Seriously, their high heels are too high.)</p><p>But I also felt incredibly humbled and honored to be there.</p><p>I called out Treyvon's name in front of his friends, classmates, teachers and others in the community in the same theater where I saw him dance while painted silver as the Tin Man.</p><p>His story mattered enough for readers to feel something and then take action.</p><p>Perhaps it was because Treyvon's life story was about hope, Booker counselor Lem Andrews speculated.</p><p>"It tugs at your heart," Andrews said. "We hear so much negativity. It's sometimes nice to hear how something bad has been turned into good."</p>